The Adventure of the Speckled Blonde
by LopezAnnaC
Summary: "Early thirties, dyed blonde hair, strange red speckles all over her body. The woman, Julia Stoner, had been found in her bed. There seemed to be no obvious cause of death." Little did John Watson know that this was the case that would change him, and Sherlock Holmes, forever.
1. Chapter 1

By Anna Catherine Lopez

Disclaimer: I do not own this show nor these characters.

* * *

**"Early thirties, dyed blonde hair, strange red speckles all over her body. The woman, Julia Stoner, had been found in her bed. There seemed to be no obvious cause of death."**

**Little did John Watson know that this was the case that would change him, and Sherlock Holmes, forever.**

* * *

"Oh, hello John. What brings you here?"

"I was hoping to have another look at that body, if it's alright." Molly blinks, her smile warm, if uncertain. John decides he likes Molly – she's sweet, and really, not at all bad looking.

"Sherlock thought you missed something, too?"

Then again.

"No, I just wanted to carry out a more thorough assessment. With all the dashing about this morning -"

What he really means is, "Sherlock dashing about." Actually, what he _really_ means is, "Sherlock flouncing from the room like a prima ballerina," but he's not about to say the words out loud. Molly squeezes her clipboard sympathetically, "Yes, of course. He can be quite… a handful."

From the way the color rushes to her cheeks, John is certain she's caught her own double-entendre. He opens his mouth to protest, then wearily rubs the back of his neck instead. What's the point? The entire Scotland Yard already thinks the two are a couple ever since the night John artfully refers to as 'The Pool Incident.' What's one more person?

"Right. So, the body?"

* * *

_Puncture marks. Right ankle._

He glances down at the words in the notebook and grins wolfishly, fingers drumming the taxicab seat. Oh yes, he'll show the World's Only Consulting Detective a thing or two about deduction. At long last the car pulls up at 221B, John practically bounding through the front door.

"You took your time."

Normally the contempt in his tone would be enough to put John in a black mood for the rest of the evening, but not today, "Missed me?"

Sherlock sniffs, but gazes inquiringly from his novel, "Well?"

"Well what?" John replies innocently, making his way to the kettle.

With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock bookmarks the page, "Clearly you've just returned from the morgue, if the reek of formaldehyde and methanol – not to mention the alarming quantity of cornstarch dusting your trousers – is anything to go by. You also took a taxi to return, which suggests whatever you found out roused you enough to forgo your usual economic crusade in exchange for expediency."

"Staring at my trousers again, were you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow, but the pink at the tips of his ears more than makes up for it.

"John…" There is a growl in his voice that John's pulse jumps at.

"Alright, alright, I did find something to do with the Julia Stoner case. You're not going to believe this, but far down on her right ankle -"

"The puncture marks. Boring."

John gapes, Sherlock easing back into his book with a self-satisfied smirk.

"You… you saw…?"

"Twin puncture marks above the victim's posterior malleolus? Obvious."

It is only years of army discipline that keeps John Watson from punching his flatmate in the face.


	2. Chapter 2

All the same, John is not satisfied. He makes a point to phone every zoo in the greater London area in order to interrogate them about missing reptiles. (If he waits until Sherlock is in the shower to do so, it is merely coincidence and definitely _not_ because he doesn't want to be overheard.)

Pleased with the resulting leads, he slings his jacket over one shoulder and heads for the door. "Sherlock, I'm going out!" he calls as the water switches off.

* * *

The sun is just beginning to set when John quits Regent's Park. He pauses by the fountain to scribble 'ZSL' from his list of names, chewing a lip. With a sigh, he pockets the notebook and checks the time. It's only a few minutes walk to Baker Street, but John feels guilty; he hasn't left Sherlock alone this long since Moriarty tried to blow him up. He pulls out his phone:

_Takeout tonight? My treat._

After a moment, he adds:

_We can even watch Masterpiece, if you want._

It's the second beep that finally gets his attention. A policeman stands a few yards away, back held rigidly towards him.

He dials.

"Sherlock," John announces, stern over the din of the ringtone. "Sherlock, I know it's you."

The detective swivels around, looking far haughtier than a man dressed in costume has any right to be, "Good evening, John."

John laughs, "That's it? _Good evening_? You're not even going to admit it?"

Fleeting panic crosses the taller man's face, "Admit what?"

"That I'm right, that the venomous snake theory has merit! That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Several different reactions appear to be battling for supremacy in Sherlock's head. Before he has a chance to respond, however, a black sedan glides alongside the pair, passenger side opening with the tip of an umbrella.

"Doctor Watson, so nice to see you again," Mycroft's tone is saccharine. "I hope you do not mind if I borrow my baby brother? Temporarily, of course."

"This does not concern you, Mycroft." Holmes the Younger spits, John taken aback. It isn't like Sherlock to let his brother goad him so easily.

"Would you prefer Doctor Watson privy for our discussion?" Mycroft queries, eyebrow raised in admonishment. Sherlock flings his police jacket down with a snarl, slamming the door closed as the car slips silently away.

John lifts up the uniform, a beige card falling from the breast pocket:

_Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade_

At least some things haven't changed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mrs. Hudson!" John shouts from the entry, heavily laden with Tesco bags and the Thai takeaway Sherlock is partial to. He wobbles a bit on the stairs – no answer, must be out – and kicks the living room door open.

Sherlock lies sprawled across the couch, fingers steepled in his usual pose. John drops the container of Pad See Ew on his stomach with an undignified thud.

"Three patches," he motions to Sherlock's pallid forearm and begins sorting the groceries. "This to do with the case?"

"The case?" Sherlock murmurs, absorbed. Then, like a shot, he is on his feet, striding purposefully towards the kitchen. "Of course not, John. Don't be an idiot." John inhales sharply through his nose. "No, no, no, not like that. Here," he hands John a cup of very strong, very cold tea.

"What's this?"

"Tea. You like tea."

John surveys at the liquid suspiciously, "Why are you giving me tea?"

"You don't want it?"

"It's cold."

They stare wordlessly – Sherlock arrogant, John apprehensive – the detective's hands still lightly clasped over John's. He swallows.

"Sherlock…"

His eyes flit rapidly across John's expression.

"Sherlock, you can let go now."

"What?" He balks.

"I'll just… pop it in the microwave. Fair compromise?"

"No, that's… fine." Sherlock releases John brusquely, shutting himself into his bedroom. The tortured strains of a violin peal through the empty hall.

John is very, _very_ confused.

* * *

In all honesty, John is never more grateful for Greg's friendship than occasions likes these, when Sherlock is acting – if possible – even more peculiar than usual.

"It's like living with a three-year-old," John confides over their second pint. "An overgrown, articulate, unbearably pretentious three-year-old." Lestrade snorts into his beer. "I dunno, Greg, he's been all over the place lately. What am I supposed to do?"

The D.I. pats John's arm awkwardly, "Sorry to hear that, mate. How long has this been going on?"

John thinks back, "Since… the pool, maybe? He's definitely been minding me more since then." Lestrade takes a significant swig from his drink. "Not like that! Just… oh, God, I don't know." He pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.

"Look, John, Sherlock is a good man."

"Right."

"No, listen, Sherlock is a good man. But he wasn't always. Something about you makes him -" Lestrade gestures helplessly.

"Makes him what?"

"Human. You make him human."

* * *

_Interview with the victim's sister, tomorrow 8:00 a.m. SH_

_Bring a basket. SH_


	4. Chapter 4

Helen Stoner is an attractive young woman, sharing her sister's blonde hair and striking blue eyes. She flirts timidly with Sherlock, but receiving nothing more than polite disregard in response, soon turns her attentions to John:

"A soldier? That must've been exciting."

John clears his throat uncomfortably. Generally, chatting up a pretty girl is his idea of a good time, but doing so in front of Sherlock feels… disloyal, somehow. "Um, so, going back to the night Julia died – did you see, or even hear, anything out of the ordinary?"

Helen tears up at that – appearances aside, the woman is understandably emotional – and shakes her head. "Nothing. And I've been going over it in my mind, over and over…"

John rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder; Sherlock taps his foot impatiently and John glares a warning. Helen fails to notice.

"You're very kind. You mentioned you're a – a doctor? – as well? Maybe sometime, after all this blows over, you'd like to go get coffee -"

"Yes, thank you Miss Stoner. We'll be in touch." Sherlock rises briskly, towing a teetering Doctor Watson behind him.

* * *

Out near the street, John wheels on his petulant hijacker, "OK, what the _hell_ was all that about?"

"Coffee, John. The woman wanted to get _coffee_."

"Yes! So? I happen to _like_ coffee."

"I am aware," Sherlock mutters darkly

John frowns, softening, "Sherlock… is there something you want to tell -"

"Did you obtain a basket?" Sherlock interrupts, unperturbed.

Some of the tension drains from John's body; he drops the hamper on his friend's feet.

"Excellent. Horniman Gardens is a ten minute walk from this address."

"Horniman Gardens? Does it have to do with the case?"

Sherlock observes John curiously, "Not at all. Why would you think such a thing?"

* * *

"We came all the way out here for… a picnic."

He hopes that saying the words aloud will help them make more sense. Apparently, John Watson is not that lucky.

"Isn't that what normal people do, in their normal lives?" Sherlock stretches himself languidly on the grass, John fighting an inexplicable urge to giggle.

"Sure, fine, but they typically eat something as well."

Sherlock carelessly flings two packets of biscuits towards the other man. Shrugging, John opens one and begins nibbling. Yes, this is about as "normal" as it gets when you're flatmates with the Great Sherlock Holmes. But, he's grateful to realize, that's more than enough for him.

* * *

Scheduling a meeting with Julia Stoner's ex-fiancé, Percy Armitage, proves a more difficult matter. A Ph.D. candidate at Cambridge, he successfully manages to avoid their appointment twice before a certain mad genius corners him in the university library.

"Dear Percy, fancy running into you here," the man flinches visibly under Sherlock's Cheshire grin. "Technology is marvelous, don't you think?" He indicates his phone, unmistakably displaying the Foursquare application.

"Look, I know what you fellows think -" Percy begins, fiddling nervously with his wire-rimmed glasses.

"What a tremendously ambitious statement," Sherlock injects coolly. Percy blanches. "Now, Mr. Armitage, let's have a little chat."


	5. Chapter 5

"It was him. It was definitely him."

"Snakes again, John? _Really?_"

"Think about it – puncture marks on her foot, mysterious poison in her bloodstream. Not to mention all those vipers he keeps at the flat."

"Honestly. _Snakes?_"

John huffs, "You're just cross because you, with all your 'massive intellect,' didn't think of it first."

To John's great surprise, Sherlock relents, "You're right, John."

"I'm… what?" he unfolds his arms, stunned.

"I said you're right. I'm sure Percy Armitage trained one of his domestic vipers to break into Julia Stoner's bedroom, attack her in the middle of the night, then slither away like a ghost with no one the wiser." To further his point, Sherlock mouths the word, "Poof!", spreading his fingers wide.

"I hate you, you know that?"

Sherlock chuckles wickedly, "No, you don't."

* * *

They return home to a new development, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson: Dr. Grimesby Roylott, the dead girl's stepfather, has invited them both out for drinks. Mrs. Hudson is beside herself with delight – apparently Dr. Roylott has made several guest appearances on Connie Prince's program – and has taken the liberty of accepting on their behalf.

Sherlock is intrigued (and John supportive of pretty much anything that keeps the insane manchild away from his British Army L106A1 for an evening), so 8:00 p.m. finds them at the Coburg Bar inside the Connaught Hotel. Sherlock is perfectly at ease, complementing the atmosphere in his Spencer Hart suit and air of detachment. John, on the other hand, shifts self-consciously and orders himself some type of lager he can't pronounce. Sherlock's lips quirk; he requests a B&B (whatever that is), and reclines back elegantly.

"Problem?"

"No, no, it's fine. It's all fine." He flags down the server and tabs a whiskey chaser. Sherlock watches him, amused.

* * *

By the time Dr. Roylott arrives, John is impressively drunk. Dr. Roylott, a round, red-faced man in his mid-sixties with a booming voice, claps John violently on the back in approval, "Oi! Thought you'd get a head start on me?" He guffaws, the other patrons shooting contemptuous glances in their party's direction.

He commands something particularly complicated and not at all English that ends up being very good champagne. Sherlock sips, his eyebrow arching in modest approval.

"Let's get right down to it," Roylott's mood immediately sobers – perhaps volatility runs in the family – and reaches to refill their glasses. "My oldest daughter was murdered, no question about it. And I'll be damned if that puny egghead gets away with it, too."

"Who is it exactly that you suspect, Dr. Roylott?" Sherlock draws a finger across his full lower lip. John stares, then shakes his head in agitation; since when did he start paying attention to his best friend's mouth? Beyond the brilliant (or, more often, caustic) observations that were drawn from it, that is. He takes another gulp of champagne.

"That Armitage chap! Who else?"

Sherlock says nothing, choosing instead to pick an invisible speck of dust from his immaculate cuffs. Dr. Roylott lowers his voice conspiratorially, "Now I probably shouldn't be telling you lads this, but my little Julia – she hated those creepy crawlies Percy was always messin' about with. Wouldn't even step foot in his place so long as they were there." He sputters into a handkerchief, jowls implausibly, preposterously redder than before.


	6. Chapter 6

The evening becomes somewhat of a blur after that; at one point, John is fairly certain he and Dr. Roylott sing a poignant rendition of "Fathom the Bowl," resulting in them nearly getting thrown out until the latter tucks a roll of bills into the now-gracious manager's palm. Nevertheless, Sherlock's patience eventually hits its limit and he carts John bodily to a cab.

"Sheeer-lock… Sheeer-lock… Shhheeer-lockity-lock-lock…"

With a dangerous rumble, the detective refocuses irritably from his mobile, "Yes, John, what is it?"

"Has anyone ever called you 'Shirley?'" John slurs. He admires the way Sherlock's thin figure oscillates between yellow streetlamp and darkness as the taxi cuts through London.

"No one who valued their continued existence."

John snorts, reverting back into placidity. Sherlock resumes browsing.

"Married to your work!"

The exclamation checks Sherlock, "Pardon?"

"The first night we met, you told me you were married to your work! Cheeky git."

Sherlock sidetracks to the window, "We're back, John. Let's go."

They make it as far as the landing.

"I'm not gay," John points out reasonably. "Never so much as thought about 'nother bloke."

"Imagine my relief," Sherlock replies sardonically, struggling in vain to coerce the other man up the stairs.

"But you're no ordinary bloke, are you?" Sherlock freezes. "You're… you're extraordinary. You're one-of-a-kind. You're… Sherlock."

John grasps Sherlock's collar and nestles under his chin, mumbling contentedly, "My Sherlock."

They lay like that for only a moment, John tucked carefully within Sherlock's hold. Later, as he's drifting off to sleep, John dreams he feels the whisper of lips on his hair.

* * *

He wakes the next morning to Mrs. Hudson's tentative, "Ooh-ooh!" and a generous assortment of tea and muffins.

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a saint."

"Thought you might need a tuck in for that hurt of yours, Doctor Watson – cozy as you boys looked last night," she winks mischievously. John chokes on a rather tenacious blueberry and coughs to clear his windpipe.

"I can't imagine why it took him as long as it did, silly clot," she sighs; the affection in her voice makes John ache. "The way he's always going about; but that's men for you."

"What do you mean?" he asks between mouthfuls of pastry.

"After that business with the pool, well, you'd think he couldn't bear having you out of his sight one minute. I'm just glad you two finally worked it out." She pats his hand fondly and stands to go.

The assertion does something funny to John's insides that he steadfastly refuses to acknowledge, "Thank you, really. And, um, do you happen to know where Sherlock is now?"

"Off to see his brother, I expect."

John starts, alarmed, "Mycroft? Did something happen?" He has a difficult time conceiving any reason outside of mass suicide at the Diogenes Club that would result in Sherlock willingly visiting his brother.

Mrs. Hudson's smile is pitying. "Oh love," she leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, "_you_ happened."


	7. Chapter 7

John accepts a few extra shifts down at the surgery (a pitiful attempt to get back into Sarah's good graces after the ordeal he put her through during their first – and last – date). As a result, Sherlock eludes him until early the following day.

"Pleasant talk with Mycroft?" John ventures over breakfast.

"What?" Sherlock pivots, visually dissecting John before concluding, "Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Of course," and returns to his newspaper.

"Did you… discuss anything important?"

Sherlock emits a noncommittal sound.

"International smuggling ring? Foreign dictator identity thief?"

"Your ingenuity is truly staggering."

John waits. Sherlock re-crosses his legs.

"I know what you're doing. I'm not stupid, you know."

Sherlock raises _The Times_, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

* * *

"Pack your bags, John. We're going away this weekend."

The other man strives to hide his relief without success. After four days and no break in the case, Sherlock has been figuratively (and, John wryly recalls one especially memorable afternoon, quite literally) climbing the walls.

"I've just received an e-mail from Lestrade: Helen Stoner was admitted to St. Thomas' late last night with the very same symptoms her sister experienced the week prior to her death." He springs from his perch on the armchair, gripping John's shoulders in a flagrant abuse of personal space, "We're _close_, John! I can sense it!"

John blushes furiously, extricating himself from Sherlock's frenzied embrace, "That's great, Sherlock, but you know I can't take off at a moment's notice. I've already promised Sarah I'd open tomorrow."

Sherlock ducks over John's laptop, typing rapidly, "No, I've already taken care of that."

"You've what?"

Sherlock motions to John's phone; there, a new text from Sarah:

_Can't say I'm surprised. Congrats all the same, and don't worry – you two enjoy your honeymoon!_

He tackles Sherlock to the ground.

* * *

The hall is considerably transformed from their former visit. Beyond Helen Stoner's continued absence, there are drop cloths, paint cans, and enough scaffolding of various heights that the gutted building barely resembles the stately home they'd interviewed previously.

"Bit of renovation?" John nudges his friend, Sherlock swiftly scrutinizing the scene before guiding John inside, his hand pressed delicately against John's lower back. Both of John's eyebrows shoot up at the touch: Sherlock is worried – no, not just worried – _scared_. Sherlock Holmes is afraid, afraid for him, John Watson. And John cannot, for the life of him, fathom why.

Dr. Roylott enters a broken man, his ruddy complexion ashen with distress.

"You lads shouldna' come," he mops his miserable countenance with a saturated handkerchief.

"It was no bother," Sherlock remarks, unmoved. "A second murder after I've accepted a contract is what you might call 'bad publicity.'"

Dr. Roylott reels, "You don't think… Helen? My Helen is in danger, too?"

Sherlock bares his teeth in a mirthless grin, "Now, Dr. Roylott, she has nothing to worry about. After all, I despise bad publicity."


	8. Chapter 8

Dusk settles on the house like a shroud – soothing and stifling and far too soon. Sherlock's apprehension keeps pace with the lengthening shadows, his agitated scowls progressing as steadily as the evening gloom.

"Can you please not?" John snaps.

"Not what?"

"You're trying to come up with an excuse to send me away. And it's not going to work."

The tiniest hint of approval crosses Sherlock's features before he schools them back to blankness, "I wasn't going to."

"Yeah, you were."

John checks his gun for the fourth – or was it fifth? – time. Sherlock's mood must be catching.

The plan is to reenact Julia Stoner's final hours by spending a night in her bedroom. It's a comfortable space (Sherlock, to John's annoyance, unceremoniously claims the bed: "Brainwork requires legroom, John!"), with a shared toilet connecting the quarters to that of her sister's.

"Are you going to tell me why you're so worked up?"

Sherlock purses his mouth musingly, "No."

"Great. Fine. What do I matter? I'm just the man with the bloody revolver."

* * *

"Read it aloud," Sherlock demands imperiously, fingers carding through his dark curls.

John consults his notebook, "According to Helen, Julia had dinner before returning to her room. She worked on her sketches for a half-hour, answered e-mails, took her regular bath, drink of water, then went to bed. Pretty normal routine, I'd say."

Sherlock appraises the empty glass on the nightstand, "Water? After the bath?"

"Um…" he refers to the page, "Yes. Drink of water, then bed. Is that important?"

Sherlock plucks a discarded piece of plastic from the tabletop then stoops to the floor, crawling on hands and knees, "Oh, John. You have no idea."

With a cry he snatches a speck of tinfoil from the carpet, sprinting to the bathroom, "Foil, plastic, water – don't you _see_, John?"

"I really don't," John grumbles, trailing after the taller man.

"A headache! Right after her bath, Julia Stoner suffered a headache! Likely because…" he's digging through cabinets now, lobbing bottles and lotions with zeal. "Yes, spot-on."

He emerges triumphant, brandishing an oversized container of bubble bath. "Dr. Roylott's latest product line, though you won't find this particular blend on the market." He unscrews the top and sniffs, "A slow-acting toxin, poisoning first Julia, now Helen – little by little, every time they took their evening soak. Simple."

John whistles, "I can't believe it – their own _father_."

"Stepfather." Dr. Roylott stands at the door, pistol leveled on Sherlock's heart.

"Like I said, you lads shouldna' come."


	9. Chapter 9

He is standing much too close to the edge. The unfinished balcony is a confusion of unstrung light fixtures and gaping panels, and Sherlock is backed right against the drop-off.

"Is that it, then? You're going to shoot me?" John's jaw clenches at Sherlock's indifference as he quickly calculates the chance of survival should he fall – three stories above cement, unlikely.

"No, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to shoot Doctor Watson. You are going to jump."

Sherlock stiffens, "And why would I do that?"

"Apologies, I shoulda' been more clear: I'm going shoot Doctor Watson _unless_ you jump."

The detective fastens his attention on John, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. _Don't you dare_, John glowers in return.

"The way I see it," Dr. Roylott explains, "this way you get a chance to live. And failin' that, I get to pretend your deaths were a tragic accident. It's a win-win."

"And Percy Armitage? Whom I assume you intend to pin the other murders on, as you were the one to create the puncture marks on Julia Stoner's corpse -" Although addressing Dr. Roylott, his stare doesn't stray from John.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes! I never did like that nancy." He gestures cheerfully with the weapon, "But let's get on with it. Unless you rather I dispatch your Doctor Watson."

_Don't you dare._

Sherlock gives John a rueful shrug.

_NO._

He steps back.

"SHERLOCK!"

He drops.

* * *

Everything happens at once:

Sherlock plummets out of sight.

John tackles Dr. Roylott.

The gun slides across the boards.

They lunge.

Dr. Roylott snatches it.

He hauls himself up by the electric wiring.

The wiring gives.

He falters over the railing.

There is a snap.

The cables jerk tight.

* * *

For as many people as Sherlock Holmes has alienated over the years, the number of flowers he receives is genuinely remarkable.

"Ridiculous."

John ignores the careless drawl.

"Absurd."

He struggles to read the chart.

"John!"

"What?!"

"I want to go _home_, John." Sherlock moans.

John stores the chart at the foot of the bed, "Do you know how lucky you are right now? If you hadn't landed on that platform below, you'd be _dead_, you idiot."

"I'm _bored_," he wails, hurling his pillow from the room.

"Well, until we get your scan results back, you can stay that way. I'm not taking any chances."

A mild "ahem" announces Mycroft idling in the doorway, umbrella in one hand and the pillow in the other. "Lost our temper, did we?"

"Go away, Mycroft. This hospital doesn't serve cake."

"I was actually hoping for a word with John."


	10. Chapter 10

"Is this about Roylott getting himself hanged by the wiring?" John asks as they step out to the hall, a safe distance from projectile bedding.

"No, no, that's all been taken care of," Mycroft waves dismissively. "I'd like to inquire what your intentions are with my brother."

"Wh-what?" John sputters. "I could be wrong, but I _think_ that's none of your business."

"Come now, John – we both know your –" he grimaces "– _feelings_ on the matter. Continuing your association with Sherlock shall lead to predictable disaster. Naturally, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money to ease the transition…" He flips open a checkbook.

"No."

Mycroft's pen hovers over the invoice, "You cannot deny that my offer is reasonable, Doctor Watson. My little brother may be one of the brightest minds alive, but I will not stand by and allow him to have his heart broken by…" he sneers, "a common soldier."

The sleeplessness, uncertainty, and (alright, he admits) terror of the last few days finally take their toll; John loses it: "Listen here, Mycroft – whatever goes on between me and Sherlock is between us AND NO ONE ELSE. If I want to shag Sherlock-sodding-Holmes, I'm going to shag Sherlock-sodding-Holmes, and it's no more yours, or Lestrade's, or the bloody Queen's concern! Understand?"

Mycroft glances pointedly past John's shoulder. He twists to find Sherlock, sparsely clad in a hospital gown and blanket and looking thoroughly and utterly shell-shocked.

John clears his throat, "Sherlock. Good. You're here. I've been meaning to…" he cuts off with a muffled curse, wraps a hand around the taller man's neck, and smashes their lips together.

After a minute, John releases him with an embarrassed, "So…" and Sherlock, eyes owl-like above exceedingly flushed cheeks, answers, "Oh."

John turns back, armed with a rebuff, but the elder Holmes is already strolling down the corridor, umbrella swinging, whistling a tune.


End file.
